


Peripheral Vision

by Scutter



Series: On the Periphery [5]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 07:10:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scutter/pseuds/Scutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shepard longs for things that might be better left in the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peripheral Vision

**Author's Note:**

> This is written from Shepard's POV.

I sit across from him in the mess, food an excuse to linger in his presence. I stow my armor in my locker more slowly than I used to, unwilling to leave the shuttle bay before he does, unable to deny myself those few extra moments standing beside him. I spend time thinking of idle things to say to him should we pass in the halls, banter about James’ poker skills or EDI’s new body. (I kick myself for not warning him about that one…) I find him in the starboard observation lounge. Reading, researching, writing reports. We exchange a few words about the latest mission, then I head back to the CIC. 

It’s not enough. I want to tell him I still love him, despite what he said on Mars, on Horizon. I want to kiss him, feel his body against mine, know that there’s one thing in this god forsaken galaxy that still makes sense. The air smells different in his presence. Fresher. Cleaner. The room seems lighter, and even if it’s just my imagination, the respite from the darkness and stench of the war gives me hope and strength again, if only for the next mission, the next 24 hours.

We chat about the Cerberus scientists, his conscience once again making for deep thoughts and lingering worries. God, I love that about him. He never just takes the easy answers. He didn’t when I shot Udina. He didn’t when I chose to save his life over Ashley’s. He didn’t when Cerberus brought me back from the dead.

Okay, so he apologised for what he’d said on Horizon, sent me a letter that had my heart in my throat as I wondered whether I should respond, or just let it lie. I was likely to die in the mission to the collector base. Somehow, I had thought that leaving things angry would make it easier on him than promising a future that might never happen. But even through all that, he never changed his mind about Cerberus, never gave in to that lie just to make peace with me. 

He’s never taken the easy option.

So I watch him now. He comes on missions, biotics devastating our enemies, mind analyzing mission parameters on the fly, fearless as he leaps from the shuttle into swarms of husks. 

But I can only watch him in my peripheral vision, gun focused on our targets, mind focused on the next mission, the next day, the next battle and the hope that it will win us some ground against the reapers. 

But I watch him. That blue glow around him that sets my heart racing. That husky voice that stirs up such longing, for things lost, and for things that I hope are still to come.

But I get no hint from him whatsoever that he’s interested in more. I’ve tried flirting, awkward and out of practice. I had to hide the picture I had of him in my cabin once he started coming up for visits, talks. But the first time he came in, it was still sitting there, front and centre on the desk, and though he never said anything about it, I’m sure he saw it there. 

He saw it. And he never said anything about it.

It’s hidden in a drawer now, out of sight, but I still take it out at night and look at it, when I can’t look at the man himself. 

I imagine him, lying beside me in bed, the way he used to on the SR-1. Shit, I miss that ship. If only for the memories of him lying next to me.

And then we’re having another brief chat in the lounge, his mind on his students, his family, while I remind myself that I no longer have the right to press him up against the glass and make him see stars – of the metaphorical variety, rather than the ones hanging outside the window.

He comes into the CIC sometimes. And no matter what I’m doing, I always know he’s there. Like a guardian angel, keeper of my heart, my sanity, my hope. 

He’s invited me out to lunch, and I know better than to hope it’s anything more than what it seems. He’s had plenty of opportunities to say how he feels, plenty of private moments away from prying eyes. He’s never said anything about wanting more.

But hope remains, hovering in my peripheral vision.


End file.
